


Something in Your Kiss Just Told Me That My Sometime is Now

by thegoodthebadandthenerdy



Category: bare: A Pop Opera - Hartmere/Intrabartolo
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, i wrote fic for a v small fandom and got overly invested, peter really loves Jason's eyes #confirmed, they cuss a little but I'm p sure it isn't worthy of a T rating, this is just fluff bc I don't have the heart to write angst for them...YET, wow shocker amirite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:24:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7808824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoodthebadandthenerdy/pseuds/thegoodthebadandthenerdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason kisses Peter and it feels like the world is ending and beginning all at once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something in Your Kiss Just Told Me That My Sometime is Now

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all out here populating the tag with angst like there isn't enough of that in the canon.
> 
> This would be pre-canon by a few months if I actually had any regards for canon, so they're both about 17.
> 
> Title from Dean Martin's "Everybody Loves Somebody"

His eyes aren’t crystal clear blue.

Not really.

They’re the Atlantic crashing into the Pacific, navy blue spattered across a milky-white canvas, and spinning around a raven vortex.

And when they’re this close, I can see the green in them too.

We’re lying on my bed, on top of the covers, our legs tangled together like the intricate weave of a spider’s web. His breath is hitching in his throat, and his fingers are digging into the plump skin of my cheeks. But his eyes – they’re storming.

“Peter,” and he whispers my name like it’s the key to the universe or the answer to life itself, and all the air leaves my chest.

I align our faces, my forehead against his, the tip of my nose brushing his, my lips –

“It was just a kiss,” I say, trying to console him.

But he shakes his head. “Peter.” And it sounds like a prayer.

“What?” and I don’t want to ask, but I do. I brace myself for the yelling, the disgust, the rage. But it never comes.

“Can I kiss you again?”

And all the air is back, inflating my lungs double time. “Yes,” it’s a silent plea. But am I asking for too much?

His fingertips are softer than I thought they would be. I don’t know what I imagined, but this wasn’t it. They ghost over my hair, my temples, my eyelids – which I let fall shut – my cheek bones, and finally, finally, my lips.

His thumb rubs gently at the corner of my mouth, and I could feel his eyes all over my face, but I don’t dare open mine.

He cups my face, and brings it forward to meet his. His hands are shaking, and I don’t know if I’m breathing. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.

The only things I do know are these: his lips, soft and questioning, press a warm, gut-melting kiss to mine; the warm line of his body, curled around mine, feels like an anchor, keeping me ashore; his warmth, filling all the empty spaces in me like honey; and his eyes, which are neither blue nor green, but somewhere in the middle, are closed for a moment of pure bliss.

“Jason,” I can barely choke out his name. I’m crying, I know I am, but all the weight has lifted, for the first time since I was 12, I feel like I’m _flying_.

He hums in response, his forehead against my chin. I press a kiss there, and then I turn my head to the right and press a kiss to the fragile skin of his temple, where soft, brown hair curls ever-so-slightly.

I don’t know what I want to say, what I need to say, but I have to say something, because otherwise my chest is going to burst and all the butterflies that are rattling around inside me are going to be free.

He hums again, this time in contentment, and inhaled deeply against the exposed skin of my throat.

“Please tell me I’m not dreaming, just, please,” and I know it sounds childish, like a toddler asking their parents for reassurances that there aren’t any monsters under their bed, but I can’t help it.

He laughs. It’s husky, but sweet, and he kisses a line up my jaw, just to the skin under my ear, with it following close behind. I can feel the strain of his lips as he grins and ghosts his breath over my ear as he whispers, “You’re not dreaming.”

And relief washes over me. He kisses the beginning of my cheek bone, my eyelids, in between my eyes, my forehead, my nose, the dried tear drops on my cheek. And with every kiss, his pace speeding up, and a bright, cheek-straining smile in between each press of his lips to my skin, he says, “This is not a dream. This is not a dream.”

And I don’t know if he’s telling me or himself, but the mantra – and the kisses – continue, his hands planted on either side of my body. He’s laughing, and I’m laughing, and I feel free.

He finally collapses on top of me, and I feel the exact moment that his heart slides over mine and settles. My arms are around him loosely, and he’s murmuring steadily into the crook between my shoulder and neck, “This is not a dream.”

It’s the closest to giddy that I’ve ever heard him and I can’t help but wonder how long he’s been waiting for this, if he’s been waiting as long as I have.  
I almost ask him. 

But I can’t speak, not yet. I could barely handle the few words I had uttered earlier – besides, I don’t know the right words that’ll explain the beating in my chest and the buzz in my fingers and toes, if there even _are_ accurate words to describe it.

He shimmies a little, until he’s only laying on me partially, his other half on the rest of the short expanse of twin sized mattress that’s left over after me squishing myself against the wall.

He twists until he’s got one arm over my stomach, and the other pulled under him in a way that can’t be comfortable. I’ve got one arm squashed between us, and the other over my stomach. Our hands meet, and I don’t resist the urge to tangle out fingers together.

His chin is hooked on my shoulder, and I feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against it, along with his breath where the collar off my offset shirt is pulled away.

There’s a mole there apparently, he points it out like he’s just discovered something amazing. I say as much.

He smiles, burying his head against my shoulder, but facing outward so his voice isn’t muffled. “Because you are amazing, everything about you, and I was too damn stupid to let myself see that. But now, now I’ve got so much time to catch up on, to learn all the little things.”

There’s a sob bubbling in my throat, but I’ve already cried once, and I can’t do it again. What if it freaks him out? What if, what if, what if.

He unfurls our fingers, and brings his up to my face instead. He traces the outline of my eyes, each one twice.

“You’re holding back tears, Pete.”

And he’s right. And he knows he’s right. And he knows that I know that he knows he’s right.

He hasn’t called me Pete since we were kids.

“It’s okay, you don’t, you don’t have to hold that back anymore. Not with me.”

And the sob unleashes from my throat, it’s grateful, so grateful, for this not-quite-blue eyed boy beside me, swiping away my tears and whispering soothingly into my shoulder, while making sure to punctuate each sentence with a kiss.

My hand races up and clamps over his, squeezing tightly. I faintly feel the bed shaking as my whole body trembles and quakes with tears. He lets me cry, never once shushing me.  
And it hits me in this crushing wave of guilt that’s been building since the day we met.

I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve him. He’s always been too good to me, for me, ever since we were kids. Ever since we were fresh-faced little boys trying to figure out the world for ourselves without the guiding force of our parents.

I say as much.

“Peter,” it’s a disapproving tone, and fear clenches steadfastly at my insides. I’ve gone too far, I’ve said too much, he’s going to leave.

I won’t fight it if he tries to leave. I won’t. I won’t grovel or beg, I’ve still got some dignity, but God, I don’t think I can watch him leave and make it through alive.

“Hey, hey, Pete,” and slowly, painstakingly, he pulls me out of the thoughts that I so easily trip into.

“Jason,” I’m gasping, I can’t breathe, but he’s looking at me, and he’s so concerned.

I focus on him, the freckles that smatter his nose, the small gouge in his forehead where he fell on the playground one afternoon and a pebble lodged into his skin, his eyelashes, which I never noticed are long and thick, yet a few shades lighter than his hair and eyebrows.

“Calm down, it’s okay, you’re okay, Peter, I’ve got you.”

I can’t control everything I’m feeling, and I’m embarrassed beyond belief. I should be able to keep my emotion in check, I’m old enough.

“I’m not too good for you, you know that, right? You’re too good for me. I’m a mess, but you-“ I can tell by the way his eyebrows scrunch together he’s looking for the right words.

“You’re the sun and the moon and all the stars combined. And you’re the oceans and the trees and the clouds all wrapped up, and when you smile, God, Peter, when you smile, everything glows. And I don’t know why you chose some fucked up kid like me, but you did-“ and now he’s laughing again, and I finally know what his voice sounds like when he’s giddy.

We lay there, tangled together, and he tells me that I’m all the good things in the world pushed together into the perfect package. And I can finally breathe again, I even have the capacity to blush under the words he’s spitting so easily.

“How long have you thought that?” I’m scared to ask, but I want to know.

“Forever,” he breathes.

I’ve never felt at home within these old walls. In this squeaky bed. Under the glare of the sun shining through these windows.

But when he says “forever” everything shifts into place and this, right here, with him in my arms, with his heart hammering against my shoulder, with his lips in the crook of my neck, I think that maybe, maybe, I finally know what being home feels like.

Eventually, he falls asleep, I can’t see his face, but I feel the shift in the pace of his breathing. He twitches in his sleep, nothing major, just a tick of the finger and a twinge of the jaw.

He also cuddles.

It’s endearing.

I’ve spent the past few years of my life dreaming about this, about this boy with the bright personality and the chapped lips and the oversized, crewneck sweatshirts that used to belong to his father in the winter.

But in all of my copious daydreaming, I never imagined this. I never imagined him lying on my bed, burrowed into my side, snoozing peacefully.

Peaceful.

I never imagined that either.

I imagined anger, I imagined gentle refusal, I imagined things that weren’t strictly PG, but never did I imagine _peaceful_.

It’s strangely poetic, that I couldn’t even have found this in my wildest dreams.

It makes sense, too. Because when I was 12, I never imagined I’d find a boy. And then I met a boy who was better than I ever could have dreamed. So of course, of course, this moment right here, right now, would be just like him.

I roll a little, so instead of lying on my back, I’m on my side. He doesn’t stir. I can see the darting movements of his eyes under his eyelids, and I wonder what he’s dreaming about.

I push my fingers through his hair, brushing it back from his face – it needs a trim – so I can see all of him. Because I want to see his face this soft and peaceful forever.

He wakes only momentarily. When his eyes slit open, he smiles sleepily and reaches over to kiss me. Then he rolls, so his back is pressed against my chest. I wrap an arm around his waist, tugging him over ‘til we’re flush.

“Sing to me,” it’s a soft request, almost carried away with the buttery sunlight.

I hum out a starter tune, trying to find my bearings over my frazzled mind.

“ _When marimba rhythms start to play, dance with me, make me sway_ ,”

He laughs at the choice, but it’s all I can think of. My mother loves Dean Martin, and played him all of the time when I was growing up.

“ _Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore, hold me close, sway me more_ ,”

He exhales, and after a few more minutes of singing, I can tell he’s asleep again.

It’s fascinating to me, how quickly he can go to sleep here. When I first met him, he couldn’t sleep very well, much less through the night. He’d wake up in intervals, and eventually end up finally waking completely 2 hours before I even stirred.

I had started setting my alarm earlier, so I’d wake up a half an hour after he did. That was how we really got to know each other, those hours spent talking as the sun rose.

Now, he goes to bed late, but is adequately tired so he falls asleep soon afterwards and wakes up just in time to get ready for class. Sometimes, I can’t sleep, and he can’t sleep, so we lay in our respective beds and let the silences grow between us. It’s comfortable. 

But I don’t remember the last time I saw him asleep during the day.

I cycle through all of the Dean Martin I can remember, even bleeding into Sinatra when I can’t think of anymore. He shifts under my palm, and snuffles, and cuddles, and I can feel the happiness rising within me. Because for once, even if it’s just for a couple hours, I feel at peace. With everything. With myself, with the world.

Sometime later, probably close to dinner now, judging by the lack of light outside, there’s a knock at the door. And immediately, my heart lodges in my throat.

I can’t explain this.

I don’t want to wake him.

I can figure this out.

I might have to wake him.

But he’ll panic and dig this hole even deeper.

The door swings open in what feels like slow motion. Everything in me tenses, and I’m surprised he doesn’t wake up.

Nadia stand in the doorway, a, “Hey, brother,” hanging off her tongue.

She stops, frozen, before snatching up the door handle and shutting the door quickly. She presses her back to the door and looks at us with confusion.

My shoulders tense farther, she could tell their mother, it could make it back to their father. I’m overwhelmingly scared, and I feel like I might be sick.

He rolls just as Nadia’s about to speak. He presses his face under my chin, nose against my collar bone and continues to sleep. Instinctively, I tighten my grip on him, holding him closer, closer.

“Nadia-“

“It’s okay,” and she’s smiling grandly, the smile she reserves for her brother and her brother alone.

“I always thought, I mean, that you, and him,” she motions between us. “I’m happy for you, and I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” she continues, “It isn’t anyone’s business unless you choose to make it their business.”

And I sigh in relief, because how could I ever doubt Nadia? I’ve known her just as long as I’ve known Jason, and she loves her twin more than anything in this life – of course she would be okay with this. With us. 

Is there an “us”?

“It’s getting late, and you two hadn’t shown up for dinner yet, so I was just coming to find him and I figured he’d find you. Guess I was right,” she chuckles under her breath, and turns to face the door.

“Take care of him, Peter.”

And I nod, even though I know she can’t see me. She takes a deep breath, and then carefully slithers out of the room, pulling the door behind her.

I sigh, a deep exhale that expels all of the tension from my muscles. I slide my hand from where it’s resting on his hip, up the ridge of his side, and rest it on his shoulder.

“Jason.” I shake him gently.

“ _What_?” he groans, he’s disoriented, and his eyes are still glassy with residual sleep.

I tell him we have to go to dinner, but he just leans back against me, and mumbles an, “Are you sure?”

I laugh, but confirm that yes, we do. I gulp, and add, “Nadia came looking for you.”

I feel his heart beat double, and watch the veins in his arms bulge. 

“Shit,” and there’s no more happiness, only fear, and I know what he’s thinking.

“It’s okay,” I relay my conversation with his sister to him, resting my nose against the pulse-point in his neck. 

“She said that?”

“Yeah.”

He lets out a shaking breath, and his heartbeat is erratic, but I hear him mumbling under his breath – silent thanks to his sister.

He rolls out of my bed, standing up to adjust his uniform, and I’m struck by the loss of his heat. He reaches down and grabs my hand, tugging me out of bed into a standing position, before fixing my rumpled uniform.

His hands tremble, but he fixes my tie, before resting his forehead against my chest. It’s an awkward position, but I still brush my fingers through his hair lazily.

“Are you okay?”

I mean it, but I also mean a thousand other things that I can only ask as words shadowed by bigger sentences for fear of what the answer might be.

“Yes,” and I don’t know if he’s answering that question or the others or maybe all at once, but the strain over my heart loosens, and I rest my cheek against his shoulder.

“We need to get to dinner,” he mumbles finally.

And I know, logically, that we have to, but another part of me wants to pull him back into that bad and never leave – just spend the rest of our lives with his head on my chest, and my arms around his waist.

_One day._

He slips his hand up my neck and cups my face, before pressing an agonizingly slow kiss to my lips that, when he pulls back, leaves me light-headed.

_**One day.**_

And just like that, I decide, this boy, this boy right here with the brunet waves and off-blue eyes, is what forever and home and all the other things in life you can’t usually see, but instead usually feel, looks like.

He grabs my hand one more time, running his thumb over my knuckles, and then he drops it, and heads for the door. I follow behind him, ghosting my fingers over his palm before he makes it out the door.

We go to dinner, Matt and some of the other boys our age crowding around Jason in an instant.

I hear them bombarding him with questions, “Where were you?”, “We looked for you everywhere,”, “We had to send Nadia to find you.”

He takes them in stride, throwing out a flippant lie about how he was napping. Next they move on to me, and I explain that I was studying, before moving past them towards the line for food.

They shake it off, barraging us with words, until we’re swept up in the sea of sounds, and smells, and tastes of the cafeteria. After dinner, they surround him and move towards the door, just like every night. He follows along, and I head back to our room.

I actually did need to study.

Right before curfew, he slips in the door. I’m hunched over my desk, the lamp, which casts a grainy, yellow glow over the papers in front of me, is the only other thing on the desk, aside from a math textbook and worksheet.

I hear him shuffle from his uniform into his pajama pants, no shirt – he gets too hot in the middle of the night and it wakes him up from his already limited sleep.

He comes up behind me and braces his forearms against the line of my shoulders, before pressing a kiss to the back of my neck and resting his chin on top of his arms, right next to my ear. “What’re you doing?”

And it feels so natural. Like we’ve been like this for years.

“Math worksheet, y’know, the one you haven’t even thought about since it was handed out.” I scratch out the second to last answer, my handwriting is one hated by all teachers due to its illegibility.

He laughs, and I can almost feel it rumbling from his chest into my back. 

“C’mon,” he muttered, almost a whine.

“What?” I asked, turning my head to the side, nose brushing his cheek.

“Lights out is in like five minutes.”

I cursed under my breath, shuffling papers around and slipping them into the front of my textbook. I slid out of my chair and headed towards my squat dresser. I grabbed a pair of pants and a thin t-shirt, exchanging out my two outfits.

We crawled into our respective beds, waiting on the faculty member who would come and check to make sure we were in bed. He came around a few minutes later, throwing the door wide and looking between our beds, which were situated on either side of the room, before nodding to himself, and pulling the door closed.

I turned to the wall, one arm under my pillow, trying to regulate my breathing.

I heard a familiar squeak of bed springs, the silent thud of footsteps, and then a quietly whispered, “ _Hey_.”

“Hm?”

“Scoot over?”

I was struck by another bolt of normalcy, of routine, as I spun and pressed my back to the wall. He lifted the covers and sunk onto the mattress beside me, pressing his face into my chest – placing a kiss through the fabric of my t-shirt, just over my heart.

I bent my head down just as he lifted his up, capturing his lips under my own. Minutes later, we resurfaced, lips red and breath deeper than normal.

I can see the pale flush over his cheeks, just barely, but that’s because my bed is directly under a window and the curtains are thin. I rake my knuckles over his cheek, relishing in the heat under my fingertips.

He closes his eyes, leaning into my touch, dimly reminding me of a cat I had when I was 7 or 8. I open my hand, effectively cupping the right side of his face. He turns his head, just enough to leave a small, yet lingering kiss to the lines of my palm.

“You asked me, earlier, how long I had thought about you that way- _this_ way,” he motions between us, well, with what little space there is between us. “And I never asked, how long have you-“

“Since the day that I met you.”

He grins to himself, cheeks heating up even more than before. He’s pleased, I can tell, and I can’t help but laugh softly.

I leave one last kiss on his lips, before whispering, “Go to sleep, you dork.”

“If _only_ it was that easy,” he whispers dramatically.

“Yeah, okay, that’s not what you were saying a few hours ago when you fell asleep in my arms in the middle of the day, light streaming in your eyes, and slept so soundly and for so long that your sister had to come and find you.”

“Shit, Pete, I didn’t think you’d play that dirty this early in the relationship.” he mumbles under his breath, laying his head down.

My heart stops, and all I can hear is the blood roaring in my ears. He’s joking. He has to be joking. He can’t mean-

“Relationship, huh?” and I try to go for cool and collected but my head is full of a symphony of excited and hopeful screams, so it comes out as more of a croak.

He clears his throat, “I mean, yeah, if that’s…what you want?” Questioning. He’s unsure.

I pull him closer resting my cheek against his shoulder, “Yeah, I’d, yeah.”

And it’s awkward and we’re laughing, trying to shush each other because we don’t want anyone to come check on us, but the shushing just makes us laugh harder, until we’re muffling ourselves in each other’s shoulders. And for a moment, it’s imperfectly-perfect.


End file.
